Five Times John Was A Saint (And One Time He Was A Sinner)
by flyeswatter
Summary: John has the patience of an angel... usually. This is my gift to baskerfeels on Tumblr for the Johnlock gift exchange. Her prompt was "John's saint-like patience." Enjoy :)


_**Five Times John Was a Saint **_

_(And One Time He Was a Sinner)_

Not beta'd and not Brit-picked, so please feel free to mention any errors that I can get on top of! This is my gift to baskerfeels on Tumblr for the Johnlock gift exchange. Her prompt was "John's saint-like patience." I hope you enjoy this- it's the first fic I'm publishing, so I'm kind of nervous! xoxo, flyeswatter 3

[One.]

It was immediately apparent to most people that John Watson had an uncanny amount of forbearance for such a small and unassuming man. What made this so instantly obvious to most people was the simple fact that he didn't turn and run the moment he met Sherlock Holmes. No, John Watson had no qualms about Sherlock, no reason to turn away from him. He didn't care (or believe) that Sherlock was a highly-functioning sociopath, nor did he care that there were spare human organs in the same refrigerator as his leftovers (as long as they didn't touch, of course).

Sherlock was by no means pleasant to live with. He refused to play the violin well—yes, refused—for he was more than capable with the polished, rather expensive instrument, but just for the sake of being Sherlock Holmes, the only Consulting Detective in the world, he played ghastly, screaming, disconnected notes over and over throughout the night. Of course, John did grumble to Sherlock about it at first. Unlike Consulting Detectives, ex-Army Doctors needed sleep, after all. It became apparent after several tries on John's part, however, that grumbling had no effect on Sherlock Holmes—nor did banging around insistently, asking politely, or hiding the violin. After only a week or so, John felt it would be decent to drop it, took note to invest in ear plugs, and that was that.

Even more commonly, John would arrive back at Baker Street after a rather mundane day at work to find all of his things completely rearranged—"rearranged" being a very loose term here, meaning anything from "hanging from the ceiling" to "covered in pigs' blood." John would babble nonsense at Sherlock about things such as _this not proper conduct_ and _that was my favourite jumper _and _next time you mess with my things I'm hauling out, _and then he'd promptly and wordlessly clean up Sherlock's mess and put on the tea.

None of this, however, is what made John extraordinary. No, the thing that made John a veritable angel was that he not only tolerated such antics, but genuinely cared for the man who was behind them. Only too often would Sherlock forget about the daily needs of a human being (perhaps, John thought, this was due to the fact that Sherlock was something just a bit more than human). John took special care to keep his flatmate fed and well-rested and clean; after all, being the world's _only_ Consulting Detective meant he was absolutely indispensable. Never did John think twice about the fact that he was the one who made the tea, did the laundry, and did the shopping for the both of them. It seemed obvious that Sherlock was far too aloof and unique to do such commonplace things. It was only natural for John to pick them up. Sherlock did enough for John in the first place, anyhow- were it not for Mr Holmes, Dr Watson would be a withering man past his prime with a psychosomatic limp, right?

[two.]

_Good things come in pairs, _says a Chinese proverb. John found out that he was not living a proverbial existence in the least when he discovered that Holmes's, in fact, do come in pairs. Pairs of Holmes's were, as John might say, _a bit not good. _

If Sherlock was a sock, John imagined he'd be woollen and the colour of eggplant, crafted for the most efficient form of comfort. Mycroft, on the other hand, would be the black, silken, expensive, form-over-function sort of sock. And try as one might to wear these socks as a pair, they simply would never look nor feel right together.

Having grown up with Harry Watson (a colourfully striped over-the-knee sock), John (a homemade sock, received from Auntie Edna three Christmases ago) had some idea of what Sherlock must be dealing with. Then again, these weren't Watsons, these were Holmes's, for Chris'sake. Petty sibling feuds tend to become quite a bit more dangerous when they are between Consulting Detectives and The British Government.

John was never one to get into issues of law, but anyone who has tried to avoid politics knows that it is simply impossible to do so, and that the issue will come and find you sooner or later. John found his political downfall in the form of Mycroft Holmes, along with his little black car and his Blackberry-tapping, nameless assistants. The process of being kidnapped ceased to be alarming to John more quickly than he would have imagined (had he known that being kidnapped would ever be something that happened to him so often). By the third time or so, John didn't so much as blink an eye. Mycroft's style of abduction was easily recognizable; no need to be wary. Though it was less than convenient, John learned how to get on with Mycroft quite well.

Despite this, John was not nearly prepared for the first time he witnessed Mycroft invade Baker Street. He felt the air still as soon as Mycroft entered 221B, his umbrella cutting the air as he swung it.

"Sherlock."

"Sloth."

John gave Sherlock a sharp look. Mycroft's venomous smile didn't waver. "John. Good to see you."

"Likewise," John shifted uncomfortably, hoping this would be a quick visit. Sherlock continued to stare at the ceiling, body strewn over an armchair.

Mycroft came over and tousled Sherlock's curls in the most menacing way possible. "Little Sherlock... don't you know why I'm here?"

"Of course I do."

"Really?"

"And it's none of your business, Mycroft." Sherlock bitterly spat out his brother's name like a curse, never once ungluing his glare from the poor, innocent ceiling. "Go home. Have some cake with Mummy; it'll surely ruin your diet."

"It's her birthday, for goodness sake!"

"I. Am. Not. Coming."

John, who had been piecing together the bizarre scenario, was not sure whether he wanted to giggle or slap someone. Were there really two grown men in his flat having a spat about their mum's birthday party? "Sherlock…" He started, not really sure where he was headed with the conversation. "Perhaps you should… at least call your mother? Wish her a happy day?"

John thought he saw Sherlock actually blush, as if he were suddenly aware that John was in the room with him and his brother. "I… er, yes. I suppose I could do that."

Mycroft smiled triumphantly. Bringing John into matters always helped him sort things out.

[Three.]

Heat. It was all heat, all around, suffocating, blistering. The heat was accentuated by the splashes of red that clouded his vision, and that was punctuated by the thrumming of gunshot and the deafening shouts, which were all intensified by the tang of sweat, sand, and fresh kill filling his nose and mouth.

_Patience, _he told himself. _Steady, now, Watson. _He had one job. Treat the wounded, treat the fallen. This would all be over quickly if he focused on the task at hand. He reached out for the young man who lay struggling in the dust. _Patience._

John touched the man with the utmost care, willing him to sit up. The wounded soldier would not move. John didn't tug or force him, just coaxed him with his kind, patient words. The man moaned and shrunk back.

"Shh," John murmured, "I can make it stop. I can make it stop if you let me."

The man turned his face up. What John saw there made him recoil. He let go of the soldier and suddenly, he was falling, falling into the red, the heat, the fire. He was being swallowed. He wanted to shout, but could not open his mouth for fear of it being filled with that blazing sand. He knew the drill. He would keep falling until he reached the end, and then there would be nothing, nothing…

But a miracle happened.

The red turned to white at first, and John thought to himself that this must be a new level of heat, but then the white began to shift to blue. The blue was soft, deep and delicate. The sand changed to silk, and rather than suffocating him, it cradled him. The blue was suddenly all John could think about. The red didn't matter as long as there was blue.

John opened his eyes and gasped gently, suddenly aware that he had had his first nightmare for ages. He hadn't had one since before. Before Baker Street. Before Sherlock.

Then John realized that he, although keenly awake, was still being surrounded by that comforting, deep blue silk.

"Sh-Sherlock?"

"Hush, John."

That blue. John was buried in the blue of Sherlock's dressing gown, with lanky arms wrapped around his torso. Despite the surprise, it was oddly comforting.

"Sherlock," he stated again, firmly this time. "I'm alright. It's alright."

Sherlock hesitated a moment before pulling back and looking at John. John had never seen an expression like this on Sherlock before; it was almost hopeless, like a kicked-puppy sort of expression. Wordlessly, he pulled off the blue robe and spread it over John as a makeshift blanket. "Good. Yes. Everything's alright." The tall man nodded sternly and got up to leave.

"Ah… good night, Sherlock."

"Good night, John."

John slept more soundly that night than he had since he was a child.

[Four.]

Then there was The Woman.

She was perhaps the greatest test of patience John had ever faced.

Absolutely no one, let alone this Woman, had the right to meddle in the life of Sherlock Holmes. No one should be allowed to tangle with that man's pristine, mysterious and beautiful mind. What made her think herself so entitled? So above everyone else on the planet? John would nearly lose his composure thinking about her. He wanted to curse her name, to stamp her out, to make her regret tampering with Sherlock.

He could still hear the words that dripped from her mouth like poison, still see her porcelain face light up when Sherlock did something impressive. He had seen far too much of this woman, more than he would have liked to see, more than he should have seen, both figuratively and literally. He couldn't get her out of his head now that she had snaked her way inside.

_"We're not a couple."_

_ "Yes, you are."_

What did that even bloody _mean_? John had no time for this, he really should move on with life, Irene was long gone, but something kept him clinging to her words. Why would she have been so ridiculous? If anything, _she_ and Sherlock had been a couple. Now that thought had him retching. And wondering. What was Sherlock's history on the front of relationships?

"_Girlfriend? Not really my area."_

Had that always been the case? Was _boyfriend _more his area? And most importantly, why did John suddenly _care _so much? John didn't care either way. That's what he told Sherlock. It was fine, it was all fine. Of course it was fine. John wouldn't in any way be affected if it turned out Sherlock was attracted to men. In fact, he was beginning to think he'd be rather disappointed if he wasn't, which was a thought that caused him more than a bit of concern.

_"I'm not actually gay."_

It had been the last time he said it. Since then… well, to be honest, he wasn't quite sure. He wasn't sure why there was such a burning hatred for the woman who had piqued Sherlock's interest, or why The Woman had seemed to turn him off of women altogether.

John knew simply that his patience was wearing thin, and that he couldn't play the part of the saintly sidekick forever. It was a good thing Irene was dead and gone, or he would have had to kill her himself. How had she done this to him? How had _Sherlock _done this to him?

How had he ever fallen in love with his sociopathic flatmate?

[Five.]

John began to wonder if he was being too patient with himself.

He had always been patient when Sherlock blew up the kitchen or ruined his dates, and he now understood why, but what about John Watson? What about what he felt? It had been a number of months since John came to the conclusion that he appreciated Sherlock as more than a friend, and he had done absolutely nothing about it.

Because Sherlock would care nothing for his silly little feelings, he told himself repeatedly.

Surely Sherlock must have known. Sherlock knew bloody everything. Then again, _everything_ excluded things like the current Prime Minister and the solar system. Perhaps Sherlock was, in fact, able to miss what was right in front of him, especially when it came to mere mortal emotions.

John knew this wasn't healthy. He knew he would have to either move on or move out, both of which sounded equally horrific. Life without Sherlock wouldn't be life at all. It would be impossible to turn back now. John supposed there _was _a third option, but entertaining it would be the single most terrifying thing possible, more terrifying than hell-hounds or war flashbacks.

Still, it was a possibility to simply tell Sherlock how he felt.

The thought made John visibly shudder.

He was being ridiculous. What was the worst that could happen? Sherlock would be utterly disgusted and kick him out and never want to see him again—

John suddenly felt he needed some headache powder.

Two more weeks passed before John settled on actually telling Sherlock how he felt, and another week before he figured out how he'd go about doing it. He had it all planned perfectly. It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep himself from running away from the issue at hand, at least, and that was all he could hope for.

"Dinner?" John asked over his paper.

"Mm. Angelo's?"

"I'll buy." Perfect. John had Sherlock right where he wanted him, in familiar territory. John was going to go about this slowly, methodically. It'd save him a bit of the pain that way, anyhow.

In the cab to the restaurant, John allowed himself for once to let his gaze linger over his flatmate. It was no news how heart-stoppingly gorgeous the man was, but John still drank in every detail. He allowed the thoughts to come; how he wanted to press his lips to that ridiculously long neck, how he ached to run his mouth over that precious indent over the sternum that showed through the undone top button of Sherlock's shirt.

"John," Sherlock was looking at him with frosty blue eyes. "Is… something the matter?"

"I, ah, no… no. Sorry." John looked Sherlock back in the eye, trying not to waver. Even though he intended to let Sherlock catch on, it was still utterly nerve-wracking. "Just…um, thinking."

"What about?"

This caught John off-guard. "What do you care?"

Sherlock shrugged, getting out of the cab and offering John a hand, as usual. John gave it and extra squeeze, trying to reverse the blush he thought he must definitely be sporting. Sherlock said nothing.

They sat at their usual table, and John didn't complain when Angelo brought a candle. He let his leg brush against Sherlock's under the table, and to his surprise, Sherlock sighed.

"John," he stated. "You're being an idiot."

"What?" John was taken aback. He expected to fail, but not quite this quickly. "Er, I mean—

"I'm fairly certain even the Yard has deduced that I care about you very deeply, John. Why haven't you realized it yet?" Sherlock's expression was fairly blank, if his cheeks were a bit pink.

John thought he might have stopped breathing. "What… What are you saying?"

Sherlock made a small impatient noise. "I'm saying that you obviously have feelings for me, John. Feelings that I… reciprocate."

John was quiet a moment, letting it sink in. "Oh."

"Oh, indeed." The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up into a half-smile, and that sent John spiralling head-first back to reality.

"You," John laughed, unable to stop himself. "You brilliant, gorgeous man, you."

And with that, John found himself locking lips with another man in plain public sight, and not caring one bit. Hell, this was the best thing that could've possibly happened to John Watson in his entire life.

[and One.]

"Sherlock, you git!" John roared from the kitchen. "I've had it with you, you know that? This was my _favourite cardigan, _you idiotic… _idiot!_" John romped to the living room to give Sherlock a stinging glare. Sherlock continued to stare at the opposite wall from his perch on John's chair. "_Cardigan,_" he mused. "Come now, John, don't be daft."

"I am not daft. I am a man who enjoys his knitwear unexposed to hydro-chloroformo-maniacal acid-

"It was _sulphuric_ acid."

"Whatever, Sherlock. You're not getting away with it this time." John marched in front of Sherlock, obstructing his vision, and tapped his foot. "What do you propose to me as retribution?"

A roll of the eyes from the detective. "Really, John…"

"Yes, Sherlock, really."

A discontented sigh. "Fine, fine. Later on I'll—"

"No," John was bent over eye-to-eye with the other man, mere inches away. "You act _now._"

A bobbing of Adam's-apple. "Well." A tongue darting across those full, pink lips. "I don't suppose I have any say in this matter, do I?"

"Hell, no," John grabbed Sherlock by the lapels of his coat and was practically mashing his mouth against Sherlock's. A retort died on Sherlock's lips and became a moan that made its way into John's mouth, causing both sets of cheeks to flush pink. Sherlock's lap was soon full of John Watson, and John Watson was full of the knowledge that he was done waiting, done being patient, done being on the side of the angels.

"Bed," he grunted between hungry kisses. "Now."

Sherlock Holmes gladly obliged.


End file.
